


Misconceptions

by SilverScaler3000



Category: Adventures of Tintin (2011)
Genre: (how is there fluff? I know not), Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Negotiation, Slow Build, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverScaler3000/pseuds/SilverScaler3000
Summary: Sakharine had always made Tintin feel...OFF, for a lack of better wording. It took him an embarrassing amount of time to realize why, and what exactly the mans intentions towards him were.But, it didn’t matter anymore. Tintin was never going to see him again.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock & Tintin, Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine/Tintin
Comments: 45
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wonderful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/943917) by [Stariceling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stariceling/pseuds/Stariceling). 



Tinin felt incredibly smug as he watched Sakharine’s car be plucked from the ground by the crane, and there was something to be said in that. 

Tintin was not really one for revenge. Sakharine had threatened him, Snowy and the Captain in equal measure, but the immense relief in knowing that the man faced inminute capture had settled something deep within Tintin; something foreign and unnerving. It had lodged its way into his chest the moment he had met Sakharine, and he still wasn’t sure how to define the emotion. That bothered him immensely.

Sakharine eyes always contained an obvious hunger, one that matched many of the different criminals Tintin had the misfortune of encountering throughout his life. It was just oddly terrifying to have that want directed at _himself_. 

_“I have recently acquired Marlinspike Hall, and this ship, as I’m sure you’re aware, was once part of the estate.”_

_“Of the late sea captain,”_ Tintin had said, suddenly very interested in what Sakharine had to say.

It was one of his many faults as a writer; he could never truly curb his curiosity, especially from what sounded suspiciously like the start of a grand adventure. Sakharine had taken to his obvious enthusiasm like a fish to water, beginning to weave a spellbinding story even as he moved closer still. 

Too close, in fact. That was when that unnameable emotion had first stirred deep within Tintin.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ he interrupted, right as Sakharine was getting into it. _“But as I told you before, it’s not for sale.”_

Tintin had gone as far as to hug the ship to his chest. He had confused the burning want in Sakharine’s eyes to be directed at the model cradled his hands, and perhaps a small portion of it had been. But, as their first encounter turned to a second, then a third, it became abundantly clear that was not the case. 

And really, the second encounter should have made everything about Sakharine’s intentions clear.

Tintin now blamed the lingering wooziness from the blow he had suffered to the head that evening for his inability to recognize why Sakharine had acted so strange towards him. There had also been a lingering, misplaced guilt and embarrassment still present in his mind from breaking into what he had thought - at that moment - was an innocent man's home.

Tintin scoffed now, eyeing the crane brining Sakharine slowly down to earth. “Innocent,” he muttered to himself. “That’s the farthest thing he is.”

Sakharine had slipped a deceptively gentle hand under his arm, drawing him away from the model. _“Looks can be deceiving.”_

_“Yes, indeed,”_ Tintin had agreed, his mind calm for all of but a moment. “ _But I don’t understand!_ ” he exclaimed seconds later, breaking out of the man's grip and returning to circle the model as he poured out a dozen different pointed questions he wanted answers to. 

Rather than give him a response, Sakharine had moved to join Tintin in front of the model. It felt suspiciously like he was trying to corner him against the glass, so Tintin kept moving away every time Sakharine stepped close to him. He even went as far as to push Sakharine’s cane away from his neck only absentmindedly, as if the gesture was no more than an annoyance. 

That was the farthest thing from the truth. 

“ _I’m looking for answers, Mr. Sakharine,_ ” he stated firmly.

Tintin had kept his outward appearance cool and utterly unintimidated, even as his heart began to beat erratically in his chest.

“ _Are you sure you’re looking in the right place?_ ”

Sakharine then pushed the tip of his cane under Tintin’s chin, which only made him lift his head with a sharp little breath of pride. 

“ _Where would you suggest I look?_ ”

“ _I suggest you_ **_stop_ ** _looking,_ ” Sakharine told him, coming closer until he was gazing down into Tintin’s eyes. His own were smoldering, and a Tintin barely held himself in place while under their scrutiny. 

“ _And why,_ ” Tintin had challenged, “ _Would I want to do that?_ ”

That seemed to give Sakharine pause, before he laid a firm hand on Tintin’s shoulder, offering him a sickly sweet smile. Tintin has glanced down at the hand, an excuse not to meet Sakharines stare, but otherwise didn’t shift.

“ _Why? Only for your own safety of course. You live alone, don’t you?_ ” 

Sakharine’s voice had dropped to a purr as he bent even closer, and the strange emotion exploded in Tintin’s chest, undefinable even as it pulsed through his veins.

“ _You’ve already had some bandit make off with your property,_ ” Sakharine reminded him gently. “ _Next time, they may be after more than a cheap, little model ship.”_

 _“I suppose you have nothing to worry about yourself_.”

 _“I think you saw tonight I am not quite so vulnerable._ ” 

**Vulnerable**. 

That was an emotional Tintin could finally pinpoint in himself when Sakharine lifted his hand from his shoulder and moved it to cup his jaw. 

“ _I would hate to see anything unpleasant happen to such a fine young man._ ” 

“ _And what makes you think something will happen?_ ” Tintin had demanded, jerking his chin out of Sakharine’s hold and darting sideways a few steps. Sakharine only followed.

“ _Now now, I’m only asking you to humor me, for my own peace of mind._ ” Sakharine caught Tintin again, this time sliding his hand around to cup the back of his neck and pull him close enough to whisper in his ear: “ _You must know what happens to nosy little parkers who stick their necks out too far.”_

Tintin hadn’t been able to repress a full body shudder at the mans proximity. People tended to get in his face when they were making a point, but this was a far cry from his other encounters. The air felt heavy with challenge, but Tintin had no clue as to what, exactly, Sakharine seemed to be pushing him towards. The man wanted the Unicorn, but there was something more.

Sakharine, of course, had noticed his reaction immediately, their tone turning smug. 

“ _Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’ve found out about the Unicorn, and I’ll see you stay out of harm’s way._ ”

The instant Tintin saw the opportunity to do so, he moved away from Sakharine, trying not to shiver as he pulled back from the startling warmth which radiated from the man. 

_"Thank you, but I can take care of myself._ ”

He said so with a finality that he hoped would end the encounter. Sakharine had frowned, but nodded. 

“ _It’s late. I think you should go home._ ” 

**That** had made Tintin tense angrily. Sakharine was behaving as if he were in control, both over the situation and of him. Clearly, since this confrontation wasn’t going the way Sakharine wanted, he was choosing to end it. That infuriated Tintin, though he didn’t let it show. Instead, he allowed the butler - the one who had hit him over the head - to show him out. 

That very same evening, when a man was killed on his doorstep in yet another hapless attempt to try to steer him clear from danger - one in dozens who had done so over the years - Tintin had forgotten what he had felt. Forgotten how Sakharines looked at him as if he possessed something more valuable than the information they now both sought. 

That was why, later, when he was trapped on the Karaboudjan and Sakharines advances towards him had finally become clear as the mans hands searched him invasively for a scroll he knew he wouldn’t find, that it still came as a shock.

As the car was placed down, Tintin brought his attention back to the present; Thomson and Thompson standing ready beside him. He forced himself to be calm. It didn’t matter what happened on the ship, he rationalized. 

Sakharine was finished. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do read ‘Wonderful’ if you enjoyed this. I truly hope you don’t mind that I decided to continue your story, Stariceling. 
> 
> Leave me a comment and I’ll get back to you when I can!


	2. Chapter 2

“Come here, Tintin.”

Tintin could barely hear the command over the sound of his own heartbeat. Sakharine’s pistol was pointed directly at his forehead, but that didn’t terrify him nearly as much as the look of smug satisfaction the bastard had on his face. Tinin would have slapped himself silly if it weren’t for the fact his arms were frozen where he held them above his head. How could he have been so bloody stupid? Of course Sakharine would have a weapon on him. It didn’t matter that he assumed Tintin was still stuck in Bagar, he wasn’t an idiot.

It was only when Sakharine shifted the angle of his gun so that it was aimed at Thomson, did the reporter realize that both of the brothers had grabbed onto Tintin’s raised hands.

Sakharine was scowling at them. “It looks like I shall have to prune away some dead wood.” 

Tintin’s eyes widened at the threat. _No,_ he thought desperately. _He can’t really mean-_

“Now where to start?” Sakharine continued, changing his aim by a few mere degrees to aim at Thompson instead. He smiled cruelly, clearly enjoying himself. “Eenie,” he switched back to Thomson. “Meenie, miney-”

“No!” Tintin shouted, pulling himself free. He strode forward before Thompson and Thomson could catch him again, stopping once the tip the gun rested against his chest. Sakharine wouldn’t shoot him. The utter possessiveness in his gaze assured Tintin of that. Sakharine leaned out of the car, raising his gun slowly up Tintin’s throat, before jabbing it harshly under his jaw. A painful reminder of who held control over this situation. 

Tintin winced, swallowing. “I haven’t got anything you want,” he stated, tilting his head away from the cold metal.

Sakharine gave him a rather disappointed look. “I think you have.”

Before Tintin could retort that statement, Sakharine grabbed him by the front of his blue jumper. He was hauled forward through the open window and into the car, momentum carrying him into the front passenger seat. Tintin gasped as he knocked his arm and shoulder into the far door, moving instinctively to shield his head. 

_Damn it, damn it, damn it!_ he thought frantically, scrambling to righten himself. 

Much to his horror, his legs had fallen across Sakharine’s lap, his back pressed uncomfortably against the door behind him, leaving him trapped and exposed. Before he could make a move to get away, Snowy started barking. Sakharine turned, training his gun out the window. 

“Snowy, stay!” Tintin shouted, trying and failing not to let his voice crack with terror. “ _Stay!_ ”

Much to his relief, Snowy stopped barking. He was still growling at the door, but it didn’t sound like he would try to jump in after him. Tintin breathed a sigh of relief, but it froze in his chest the instant Sakharine turned to look at him again

“Don’t try anything,” he warned coldly. Tintin glared at him, trying to form in his mind the best way to kick Sakharine in the balls and escape, without getting shot. 

“You won’t get away with taking him hostage!” Thompson shouted. 

Sakharine glanced back at them. 

“To be precise: get away from him!” Thomson joined in. 

Tintin wanted to shout back to the detectives, to tell them he would be alright - _he wouldn’t_ \- but at that moment Sakharine grabbed a hold of his knee, sending a shock up his spine. It was likely a move meant only to keep him from kicking the man, and yet it brought back painful memories from the Karaboujan.

“ _I would rather we settled this without resorting to violence._ ” Sakharine had stated after grabbing Tintin’s knee in a similar fashion to how he held it now. 

Tintin inhaled sharply, and to his horror, Sakharine seemed to catch on, his eyes narrowing in on his lips. 

“ _I thought you were doing this without violence._ ”

“ _Yes, it would be a shame to bruise your face_.”

Tintin dug his hands into the leather paneling, trying to ground himself. Sakharine rubbing his thumb idly along the inside of his knee wasn’t helping; neither was the satisfied breath the man let out.

“No one wants your precious blood spilled,” he murmured, his voice low and gravely.

Tintin felt like laughing, or throwing up. Perhaps both.

“ _What will it take to satisfy you that I don’t have it?_ ”

“ _Perhaps I should take all of your clothes and have them turned out._ ”

“Now,” Sakharine commanded in a louder voice to the detectives outside the window, “Put this car back on the ground-”

He was interrupted by a jerk as the car swung suddenly up into the air once more.

Tintin scrambled to stay upright, one of his heels digging into Sakharine’s leg. They smashed into the building, nose first before the car swung around to grind the passenger side into the brickwork. The window behind Tintin’s head shattered as he fell back with their momentum. 

Everything went black. 

**_~oOo~_ **   
  


“Oh, I’m glad you know the truth, Haddock. Until you could remember, killing you wouldn’t have been this much fun.”

Those words were what greeted Tintin when he came to. 

He groaned, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He appeared to be inside of the control house, the one that commanded the crane. Sakharine was here too. 

Bloody brilliant.

He stumbled to his feet, one hand pressed to his head as he stared past Sakharine and through the ruined windows. “What have you…” he trailed off, staring in horror at his friend. “Captain!” he shouted. 

Tintin lurched forward, trying to get to the man, but he was dizzy; unsteady on his feet. Sakharine caught him before he could stumble and pushed him back to lean against a giant spool of cable. Tintin fought against his hold, wanting in equal measure to get away from Sakharine and aid Haddock. 

“Calm down now,” Sakharine told him sternly. Then, in a worried tone of voice: “Ah, you’re still bleeding.” Shifting his weight to keep him pinned, Sakharine drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to where Tintin’s temple throbbed. 

“Ah,” Tintin hissed, trying to push the man away. Sakharine shushed him. 

“Hold still,” he whispered. 

For reasons Tintin couldn’t quite comprehend, he listened. When he tried to rationalize it seconds later, the only conclusion he could come up with was that this was different. Sakharine’s hold on him was still possessive, but the lust in his eyes was dimmed by what Tintin could only identify as concern. The man’s touch was gentle where it treated his wound; _soothing_. 

Being the object of someone’s desire had been an absolute horror for him, but now, it was hard not to enjoy the sensation. The adrenaline in his system was beginning to wear off, and it took a great deal of self control on Tintin’s part not to just close his eyes and savor the moment of calm. 

It was shattered only a moment later when Sakhaine cupped Tintin’s face in his other hand.

“You still want a treasure hunt so badly, come and join me in the last leg.”

Tintin blinked in confusion. “What?”

Sakharine smiled at him. “Join me," he said, "And you get everything you wanted: Those answers you were so eager to stick your neck out for, a share of the treasure. It would be so simple now. You were obviously willing to get your hands dirty to get this far.”

Tintin clenched his teeth. “I didn’t take anything from you that you hadn’t already stolen,” he snarled. How _dare_ Sakharine think he’d sink that low. 

“Now, now. I’m not asking you to be a thief, or a scoundrel, or whatever it is you think you so object to being," the man tsked. "I have plenty of others to do such petty work.”

“Because you can’t do it yourself,” Tintin spat mockingly. “Duly noted.” 

He began shifting restlessly, trying to see around his shoulder. He had to make another break for it, he had to save the captain!

“I have crushed the last of the Haddocks with my own two hands,” Sakharine hissed, tightening his grip on the bloody patch at Tintin’s temple. 

Tintin grunted in pain, glaring at Sakharine. _Arsehole,_ he thought. 

“My ancestors rightfully plundered every treasure they set their sights on, and I take what I want,” Sakharine growled at him. “There is nothing in this world I cannot take in my hands if I so desire.”

He pressed himself closer still; his breath warm on Tintin’s cheek. Tintin’s eyes widened, and another involuntary gasp escaped him before he could stop it. 

“Including you,” Sakharine finished, bending to steal Tintin’s lips with his own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I'm branching from the original fic and writing more original stuff - WITH SO MUCH FEELS WTF DID THIS COME FROM!?!?
> 
> enjoy

Tintin froze completely. 

Even after everything Sakharine had done to him, somehow, this still came as a shock. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. A cocktail of thoughts and emotions were spiraling out of control through his mind, and he struggled to make sense of them. 

Angry 

_How dare he-_

Confused

_Why is he-_

Terrified

_Sakharine is_ **_Kissing_ ** _me?_

There, that was something concrete he could focus on. Sakharine’s lips were warm against his own, and the scrape of his beard felt strange as it brushed Tintin’s face, but not… unpleasant. 

Tintin would have laughed at that outrageous thought if his lips weren’t presently occupied.

Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had kissed him. He rarely met a young woman who caught his fancy during his adventures; none had held his interest since boarding school. But even before, this was nothing like the shy press of lips Tintin had shared in dark closets and abandoned hallways. This was electric and full of heat, demanding and hungry. That emotion was once again bubbling up in his chest, but this time it was different. Trepidation was still present, but it wasn’t all bad-

**_Tongue_ **

Sakharine was forcing his head back and shoving his tongue into his mouth, and suddenly Tintin remembered that this was very much not alright! 

He clawed at the man's coat and landed a sharp kick to his left ankle, but Sakharine was unrelenting. Even after Tintin bit the man’s tongue and tasted blood, Sakharine’s eyes were closed as if in bliss. Enraged, Tintin relented for a single moment, and Sakharine let his guard down for the few precious seconds he needed.

Landing a right-hook across the bastards face was more satisfying than words could describe.

Sakharine stumbled from the impact, losing his hold on him. Tintin backed away, wiping his mouth to remove the last traces of the mans saliva. “What is wrong with you?” he gasped. 

“Would you prefer a useless old drunkard?” Sakharine demanded, shaking with rage.

“The Captain is not useless!” Tintin blurted out defiantly. He darted away from Sakharine’s hungry lunge, twisting around and looking for an escape. 

“So it is him. Ever since Sir Francis, the Haddocks have tried to destroy everything my family rightfully took. Well it ends here, in this generation. I saw you first!”

“You’re insane!”

Sakharine made another grab for him, but Tintin ducked under the man's arm and scramble up over the control board, trying to get out through the smashed front of the control house. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder before he could attempt to squeeze himself through, however, and Tintin turned around with fists raised. He was not some _harlot_ , and Sakharine would do well to learn that.

Before he could react though, Sakharine struck a single blow across the side of his head. The ground rushed up to meet him for the fifth time since everything had begun, and Tintin was consumed by darkness. 

**_~oOo~_ **

The sixth time he was knocked out had been completely unexpected. At least, that was the first thought that came to Tintin’s mind as he groaned; consciousness a bastard that refused to hurry itself. 

He had been home for the first time in days, for less than an _hour_ , when a knock had sounded at the front door. He regretted opening it now, seeing as it ended with a blunt instrument hitting him hard enough to probably crack his skull. His head ached now, and Tinin wondered if this time his brain had been jostled loose.

Fighting past the dizziness, he focused on his memories from the last time he had woke like this; his head pounding, the taste of bile and blood in his mouth. It had seemed hopeless then too, and yet, he had stopped Sakharine. They had _won_.

_"Sakharine is already well on his way to a holiday behind bars.”_

_“Precisely.”_

Tintin sighed. He had vowed not to think of that man any longer, and yet, before he had even opened his eyes, he already knew this was Sakharine’s doing.

He tried to move, but found that he couldn’t. The (unfortunately) all too familiar feeling of rope around his wrists was present, even if the position they left him in wasn’t. Trying to jostle his feet proved equally useless. Finally, he opened his eyes. A quick glance let him see that he was on a bed, tied so that his legs and arms were attached to different corners of the posts.

He groaned with frustration, throwing his head back and twisting to the best of his abilities in the restraints. “Sakharine!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. He had had enough of this rubbish. 

A door that he previously hadn’t noticed opened to his right, and in walked the man, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream _and_ the canary.

“Where am I?” Tintin demanded, rage swelling around his words and chasing back the last traces of dizziness from his mind.

“An undisclosed location,” Sakharine told him pleasantly.

“That’s not helpful,” Tintin growled, watching as Sakharine’s smile turned openly cruel.

“It really matters not,” he said. “What does matter, is that my property has been returned to me.”

Tintin ground his teeth together, trying to calm himself. “Even if you have the scrolls again, you won’t find the treasure, not without the captains help, and he won’t give it.”

Sakharine merely shook his head. “I wasn’t referring to the scrolls,” he stated.

Tintin’s eyes widened. Surely, surely he didn’t mean-

“Are you comfortable, Tintin?” Sakharine asked suddenly, coming to a stop by the side of the bed. “I had rather hoped the ropes wouldn’t chafe your wrists.” 

He placed a hand over Tintin’s, and without stopping to think of the repercussions, Tintin managed to lean over far enough to bite him. Sakharine yelped, letting go immediately. 

“You brat!” he hissed, pulling his arm back.

Tintin braced himself, expecting Sakharine to strike him, but to his shock, the man did nothing of the sort. Instead, he lowered his arm, his eyes taking on a glint that immediately made him nervous. 

“Foolish boy,” Sakharine murmured. His voice had dropped a few octaves, sounding very nearly like a velvety purr as he stared down him. “You are fortunate I enjoy our banter far too much to place a gag over your mouth.”

Tintin had to bite his own tongue to keep from squirming.

“You continue to act as if you don’t need me,” he went on, “Pretending to not even consider the offer I so generously gave you before.”

“I will never work for you,” Tintin spat.

Sakharine chuckled at that. “I’m not asking you to,” he soothed. “Rather, I would have you work _with_ me.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes. You would be my equal, not my lesser.”

Tintin scoffed. “I’ve taken enough blows to the head to know not to trust you, Sakharine. If _this_ -” he struggled in his restraints, “Is how you treat people you consider your equal, then I want no part of your schemes.”

Sakharine hummed. “Surely you can understand why I had to resort to your bindings?” he asked, holding up the hand Tintin had bitten for emphasis. “Although if I am being completely honest-“

He sat down on the edge of the bed, resting a hand upon Tintin’s calf. “I rather enjoy having you like this, completely at my mercy.”

And _oh,_ the unnamed emotion was at full force inside of Tintin’s breast now, threatening to drown him in its intensity.

“You would look far better in green,” Sakharine mused, fingering Tintin’s blue jumper disdainfully. “Something to bring out your hair.” Hungry hands began to untuck Tintin’s shirt and slide over his stomach and sides, causing the reporter's breath to hitch. “Such soft, pale skin. Dark colors would contrast lovely with your complexion.”

Sakharine’s fingers began traversing dangerously close to his belt, and Tintin finally found his voice as fear struck true within him.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted, writhing so as to jostle the man’s hold.

Sakharine snarled, moving so that he was straddling him, his face close enough that warm breath hit Tintin’s cheek. “You belong to me now,” he declared. “I do whatever I please.”

_No, no, no!  
_

Tintin thrashed in his restraints, trying to buck the man off of himself, but all it did was shift him slightly.

Sakharine grabbed his arms and pressed his fingers harshly into Tintin’s skin. “Stop it,” he demanded. “Stop this at once!” 

But Tintin could barely comprehend what the man was saying. No matter how many seemingly unstoppable foes he had faced in the past, the absolute terror he was experiencing now made everything else dim in comparison. “Please,” he sobbed, his eyes shut tightly as if that could somehow block out what was about to happen. “Please, _please_ no, don’t!”

Sakharine’s grip vanished so quickly one would think the man had been burned, and Tintin could tell he pulled back from how his warmth went with him. Tintin blinked his eyes, wetly, open, afraid of what he would see. 

Sakharine was staring down at him uncertainly. “What do I have to do?” he asked. “What would you have me do in order to make you unafraid?”

Tintin’s mouth fell open in his shock. “Are you serious?” he asked incredulously, jerking his face to the side as Sakharine brushed his cheek with the back of their hand. 

“More serious than I have ever been in my entire life," the man whispered.

Tintin swallowed, shivering as Sakharines eyes tracked the movement. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice so quiet he wasn’t sure if Sakharine could hear him.

Sakharine sighed, showing that he had. “You,” he said simply. “Only you, Tintin.”

Tintin shut his eyes again. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

It was not a lie. Sakharine had always been an odd sort, even compared to the more unhinged hooligans Tintin had faced in the past. He was calculating, however, and incredibly sharp. The man kneeling over him barely matched that description. He was desperate, and, given that Tintin was the one tied to a bed, really, he had no right to be. 

“What is there to understand?" Sakharine questioned. "You're a strong, brilliant young man. You follow my twists and turns as no other could, it has been unlike anything I have ever experienced. But you are not one of three expendable model ships. You are singular, Tintin; irreplaceable. Nothing in my life has ever been irreplaceable before.”

“Surely that’s not true?” Tintin asked, opening his eyes once more. For a moment, he thought Sakharine looked rather downcast. 

“Money, people, these things have always been so easily replaced the moment they ceased to be useful to me,” the man admitted with a shrug. 

“And when I cease being useful, what then?” Tintin demanded, renewing his struggles. “You plan to use me, use my _body_ , and then be done?” 

Sakharine actually had the nerve to chuckle at that. “Oh no, my beautiful, horribly stubborn little spitfire,” he said, gazing down at Tintin fondly. “I would never tire of you, never throw you away. Rather, I would have you by my side, always, in all things.”

That was a startling enough revelation for Tintin to let out a - rather hysterical - bark of laughter. “You sound as if you're proposing to me,” he said in disbelief. 

“Were it not against every law in every nation on this great earth, I think I should rather like that,” Sakharine mused. “The Pirate King and his Prince Consort.”

Tintin openly gaped at him. “You are truly mad.”

“For you? I believe I am,” Sakharine told him, leaning closer. Tintin turned his head away, but Sakharine cupped his cheeks in his hands, forcing him to look at them. “Even as you continuously thwarted my plans, my advances, I grew ever more determined to have you for my very own, Tintin,” Sakharine murmured. “Mind, body, and soul.”

Tintin barely held back a strangled whimper. This was all too much; he didn’t know what he was supposed to think, supposed to feel. Sakharine's weight on his chest wasn't helping matters, and he desperately wanted the man off of him, _now_.

“Please, get off of me,” he asked, trying not to sound as if he were begging.

Sakharine glowered, looking frustrated. “Only if you do one thing,” he stated firmly. 

Tintin’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he asked, dreading the answer. 

“Kiss me.”

Immediately, Tintin wanted to refuse. But Sakharine looked so bloody determined, he wasn’t really willing to push his luck. Rather than give a verbal assent, Tintin nodded once, sharply.

Sakharine lowered his face immediately, not allowing him a chance to change his mind. 

As their lips were pressed together, Tintin held completely still, holding his breath. Compared to the other instances, Sakharine’s kiss felt explorative, rather than demanding. It wasn’t what Tintin would call docile, but this time it felt more relaxed, pleasant, even.

All the same, Tintin was impatiently counting down the seconds until it was over.

After a while, however, it became obvious that Sakharine wasn’t going to move away until he was kissed _back_. With what Tintin thought was the bare minimum required from himself, he moved his lips against his captors. Sakharine hummed lowly, a sound that made Tintin shudder. Great Snakes, why did he have to sound like that? More importantly, why did it have such an affect on him to hear it? 

Then the man probed at Tintin’s mouth with his tongue, and Tintin let out a rather sharp whine. He shivered as Sakharine groaned lowly in response, their lips finally parting.

“Open for me,” Sakharine whispered against Tintin’s mouth, rubbing the reporters cheeks tenderly with his thumbs. “I wish to taste your brilliance, Tintin.”

Tintin inhaled sharply through his nose, and then let his lips part before he could think better of it. Rather than plunge straight in, Sakharine kissed the corner of Tintin’s mouth gently in thanks, then slowly, ever so slowly, began pushing inside. His tongue traveled past Tintin’s teeth, rubbing against Tintin’s own before pressing against the roof of his mouth. Tintin moaned, shuddering at the strange sensation. God help him, but that felt good. Sakharine pressed a little firmer, but never sped his movements, and Tintin felt himself relaxing more and more into the kiss. 

After a moment, Tintin moved his own tongue, pressing it questioningly against Sakharine’s, even going as far as to push it against the others lips. There was a strange energy building between them, and he felt compelled to explore it.

Sakharine inhaled sharply at the action, then moaned, allowing Tintin entrance. Their mouths explored one another hungrily, and yet the man still didn’t try to force Tintin to go faster or deeper than he allowed.

It was all very slow, dare he say _intimate_. 

Eventually, Sakharine pulled away, and Tintin opened his eyes, not having even realized that they had slipped closed again. Sakharine was staring down at him with something akin to wonder, and Tintin had to remind himself that leaning upwards to initiate another kiss was not in his best interest.

“Now get off of me,” he said instead. He had meant to sound firm, but the command came out a bit more breathless than he would have liked. 

Sakharine immediately scowled, and for a moment Tintin panicked, worried that he would go back on his word. After a moment, however, the man sighed.

“As you wish,” he said.

He moved off of Tintin slowly, as if he were savoring the contact. Every place he brushed felt electrified, and Tintin hated himself for missing Sakharine’s presence once it was gone.

As soon as he was on his feet, Sakharine stilled, as if unsure what his next course of action should be. Perhaps he had not thought this far ahead. Tintin certainly hadn’t, nor had he foreseen how at odds he would be with himself from something as simple as a kiss; from his enemy, no less.

For a long moment, Sakharine remained silent, and Tintin bit the inside of his cheek as he waited for the man to do something. Then, Sakharine reached behind himself for his cane, and, while Tintin watched, pulled his sword free.

Tintin could feel himself break out in a cold sweat, and he began to shake. “Sakharine,” he tried, but the man didn’t seem to hear him as he brought the blade towards him.

Tintin held his breath, expecting death. Instead, to his shock, Sakharine began cutting the rope wrapped around his right wrist.

“I’m going to give you two choices,” Sakharine stated after he had freed both of Tintin’s hands, moving on to the reporters feet. “If you truly wish to leave, I’ll let you. However, should you do so, know that I will never stop hunting you nor Haddock down until you are both dead at my feet.”

Tintin’s heart fell into his stomach, and he had to remind himself not to kick Sakharine while the man was still cutting his remaining foot free. Once it was released, Tintin sat up, pushing himself as far away from the man as he possibly could. He felt dizzy, and didn’t want to risk trying to stand only to fall to the ground again. So he remained on the bed, terrified and unsure.

“Or?” he asked, already having an idea as to what the second option would be.

“Or,” Sakharine continued, “You agree to be mine, and I will forget the name Haddock and the ruin it has brought upon my family.”

Tintin felt as though he were being sucked into an abyss. “You would give up the treasure so easily?” he asked tonelessly.

Maybe that was not the question he should be pondering, as opposed to ‘ _what is wrong with you’_ or ‘ _why are you so fixated with me’,_ but the mans words had left him completely at a loss.

“Look around you, Tintin,” Sakharine told him, gesturing to their surroundings. “I clearly have more than enough wealth at my disposal if I was able to bribe my jailer, hire someone to kidnap you, _and_ rent a room that lived up to my standards, all in one night. The treasure was a means to an end to restore the Rackham honor, nothing more.”

Tintin shifted on the bed, crossing his legs in an Indian style and placing his hands in his lap. He stared down at them as he thought for a moment. “Where would we go?” he asked, yet another question he couldn’t really fathom why he wanted the answer. 

“Anywhere you like,” Sakharine told him earnestly. Tintin’s eyes snapped upwards as the bed dipped down slightly, watching as Sakharine eased himself on the edge farthest from him. “So long as it’s a location where we would both be unrecognized, there would be no reason not to. I already have a few in mind, actually. There are places that few men have laid eyes on in the past century."

He brought a hand forward, as if he wanted to place it atop of Tintin’s, but seemed to think better of it and merely placed it on the sheets between them. “You yearn for adventure, Tintin, I know you do, and I would never keep you from it. The Unicorn was one of many; surely a few questions left unanswered are a small price to pay for what I am offering?”

“And what are you offering, besides shackles to your bed?” Tintin demanded angrily, sitting up straighter. “How often would you expect me do… _things_ for you?”

Sakharine was quiet for a very, very long and agonizing time. “Never,” he finally answered. 

The response was so shocking that Tintin’s mouth fell open. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe-”

“If you wished to be intimate, I would oblige,” Sakharine interrupted. “Should you not want that, however, I wouldn’t touch you.” 

Tintin finally found the strength to get up from the bed. He stormed around it, placing himself in front of Sakharine. He was taller than the man when he was sitting, but that brought him no comfort. “You didn’t seem to have any qualms about forcing yourself on me before,” he snapped angrily. “Why would you stop?”

Sakharine stood, towering over Tintin once more. “You would be mine,” he explained patiently, reaching forward and grabbing Tintin’s wrist before he could react. “But,”

He brought Tintin’s hand to his chest, placing it over his heart.

“I would also be yours. There would be nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Tintin stared at him, a flush climbing up his face. He could feel Sakharine’s heart beat steadily under his palm, slower than his own, which was pounding out of control. Of all the responses this insane, infuriating man could have given him, why did it have to be _that!?_

“I will leave you to think,” Sakharine told him, bringing the reporters hand up to his lips, kissing the knuckles. Tintin yanked them away as though he had been burned. Sakharine didn’t react beyond sighing. “There are no windows in here, and there is only one door, which connects to my room. Once you have made up your mind, come to me. I’ll respect your decision, no matter what it is.” 

With that, he left, leaving Tintin to stand there, alone.

“Great Snake’s."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please PLEASE comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> Read ya later!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Sakharine stared at the door, willing it to open. He had left Tintin to his thoughts well over an hour ago; each tick of the grandfather clock a hammer to his skull as he waited impatiently. The room was inescapable, so he was not at all concerned that Tintin was gone, but he could feel his frustration climbing. Surely the boy was nearly done making his decision?

He sighed, removing his glasses to wipe imaginary dirt off of them. This was humiliating. What had even spurred him into giving Tintin a _choice?_ He would have come around - eventually. Perhaps Sakharine should have waited. Give or take a few days, the boy would probably have been more receptive to-

_Please,_ **_please_ ** _no, don’t!_

He winced at the memory. Brave, beautiful Tintin’s face marred by despair, tears hinting in the corners of his eyes. It was like watching a flame die out, the way the boy had given in to his terror and stopped fighting him. Sakharine never wanted to bear witness to such a sight ever again.

The simple idea of forcing himself on Tintin, the very thing he had fantasized each night since the moment he had first met the reporter, now made his stomach clench in painful knots. After all, it was the boy's bravery, his passion, that made him so alluring. If those qualities died at Sakharine’s hands, he would never forgive himself. 

Hence the arrangement he had proposed. 

Tintin could not be made to do something he did not want to, that much was obvious now. Sakharine risked damaging his spirit irreversibly if he were to even attempt it. That realization was what made him decide to release the reporter from his restraints, but not without asking for something in return first. Sakharine still wanted him, and was selfish enough to demand at least one thing: the kiss.

Tintin had looked disgusted by the idea, which had pained him, but once their lips were pressed together, it became clear that he stood a chance. 

A spark had been ignited between them as their mouths explored one another, spreading through their veins like wildfire. It was intoxicating, having Tintin _respond_ to him rather than try to push away. And oh, that delicate flush that had alighted his cheeks once they parted had been exquisit.

If given time, Sakharine was sure he could work the boy around. Sakharine would give him anything and everything his heart desired if it meant replicating the moment they shared. 

But if Tintin’s decision was to leave, to abandon him for _Haddock_ , what then? Could he really bring himself to kill the boy? 

Mind, he would keep his word and let Tintin leave without a single scratch - give him a day or two before the hunt began. Perhaps the reporter would flee, or maybe he would stand his ground. Either way, Sakharine would find him, and then he would make Tintin regret refusing him. 

He sighed again, this time in frustration. He… he did not wish to hurt Tinin, not really. He regretted all the ways in which he had already. Perhaps, he would only kill Haddock. Break one of the mutts legs. Something that wouldn’t require him to look at Tintin as he exacted his revenge. 

At that moment, the sound of a door opening met his ears, and he froze.

He turned just in time to watch as a shock of ginger hair peaked around the small crack, and Sakharine held his breath, waiting. Tintin stared at him, apprehension clear on his face. Once he had taken a moment to glance around the room, however, he opened the door the rest of the way and began to walk forwards. A determined look had settled in his eyes, one that Sakharine had grown to think of as characteristic for him. He stopped a mere breath away, fists clenched at his sides.

“Tintin,” Sakharine greeted. 

Tintin didn’t answer him, not at first. Something was clearly warring inside of his mind, and Sakharine didn’t dare rush him.

“I still think you're mad,” the boy finally said, making Sakharine wince. “But since I am agreeing to this, I must be as well.”

It took far longer than it should have for Sakharine to process those words, but once he had, he found himself speechless. His heart felt as if it were about to burst, it alternated from pounding in his throat to his stomach and back again.

Tintin was saying _yes_. 

“You,” he had to clear his throat. “You are agreeing to stay with me? To be mine-” 

Tintin looked as if he had swallowed something foul, so Sakharine quickly amended his question. 

“To be my companion?” he asked instead. 

Tintin’s eyes narrowed at him. “You promise never to lay a hand on the captain, nor on anyone else who isn’t an immediate threat to you?” 

“I swear it on the Rackham name, that I shall never do anything of the sort,” he promised, reaching forwards and tilting Tintin’s chin up with a finger. “So long as you are by my side.”

He watched Tintin’s throat bob as the boy swallowed. “I believe we are in accord, then.”

Sakharine donned his most charming smile. “Excellent,” he said, ignoring the urge to close the gap between them - seal their bargain with a kiss.

Instead, he turned and hurried over to a cupboard, pulling out a bottle of champagne he had specifically asked to have brought, his mind a whirlwind full of possibilities. “We can start planning our first excursion. I already have-”

“Hold on,” Tintin cut him off sharply, making him turn to stare at the young man. “Before anything else, I would like to cover all the basics of our newfound…” he trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for the correct word. “ _Partnership_ ,” he finally settled on, “Before it blows up in our faces.”

Sakharine thought for a moment, then nodded, placing the bottle back down. It was a logical request to make. “Alright,” he agreed easily. “Let us sit while we discuss it.”

He gestured to the chairs at the far corner of the room, and began walking towards them. Without giving a verbal agreement, Tintin followed after him, though at a distance. Sakharine smiled invitingly and sat down on one end of a sofa, hoping Tintin would join him on the other side. Instead, much to his disappointment, he opted to take the armchair. His body was tense, fingers digging into the expensive leather. 

Sakharine frowned, taking it all in. “What do you suggest we start with?”

“I want to at least say goodbye to the captain,” Tintin told him firmly. “And I won’t go anywhere without Snowy. There’s also the matter of my job, and my apartment.”

Sakharine clenched his teeth.

**_~oOo~_ **

For the next hour, they talked, Sakharine giving Tintin the most reasonable offers he could manage.

They settled most matters quickly - he even conceded to let that bloody dog live with them - but every time Haddock came into conversation, Sakharine steered them to a completely different topic. It was quite obvious that Tintin was perfectly aware of what he was doing, but the boy didn’t call him out. At least, not until there was simply nothing else to discuss. 

“Why do you not want to say goodbye to the captain?” he asked stubbornly. 

“I simply don’t see any reason why you should,” Sakharine ground out. “You could easily call or send a letter.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to him,” Tintin objected, sitting up straighter. “I owe him my life, and, more importantly, he is my friend. I want to say goodbye to him in person.”

Sakharine stood and began pacing, Tintin’s eyes tracking him all the while. “You’re not his anymore,” he said angrily. “You are mine!”

“Because I choose to be,” Tintin reminded him sharply, standing as well. “But if you keep behaving like this I might just reconsider it.”

“And you won’t change your mind once Haddock has you back in his filthy hands?”

“What are you going on about?” Tintin asked, and oh, how _dare_ he sound so innocent and confused.

“That drunkard can’t have you,” Sakharine hissed, stopping in front of him. “You’re mine to have, mine to _take_ -”

“You said you wouldn’t,” Tintin snarled, shoving him in the chest. 

“I won’t!” Sakharine reprimanded, cursing himself for the slip of his tongue. He grabbed Tintin’s arms before they could push him again, holding them tightly. “I will never, ever touch you without your permission.”

“You’re touching me now!”

“I meant in that manner and you damn well know it!” Sakharine shouted, shaking him. God, he was at his wits ends. “Do I truly repulse you that much!?” he questioned. “Do you find me so disgusting that you would rather have that ugly, unkempt seadog in your bed?” 

Tintin tried once more to pull away, but Sakharine only brought him closer. “What is it that draws you to him? What could he possibly have that I-”

“I have never taken a lover!” Tintin screamed. 

The following silence was deafening. 

Sakharine was so surprised that his grip slackened, and Tintin took that opportunity to wrench his arms free from his grasp. “Bastard,” he hissed at him, rubbing at the reddening, no doubt soon to be bruising, area’s. “Of all the stupid, unimaginitave things you could have assumed…” 

Sakharine finally found his voice. “You are not in a relationship with Haddock?”

Tintin rolled his eyes, scoffing. “No,” he said plainly. “I have no interest in the captain, romantic, _sexual_ or otherwise.” 

As that bit of information was being filed securely in his mind, Sakharine couldn’t help but step closer, focusing all of his thoughts towards one point. “No one has ever had you?” he asked. “Not a man, or even a woman?”

Tintin’s gaze sharpened. “No,” he said, backing away from him. 

Sakharine pressed forward regardless, following Tintin until the reporters back met with a wall. He brought his hands up, caging the boy in. _He’s a virgin,_ he thought, heat curling in his loins as he stared into Tintin’s eyes. _Haddock has not tainted him; he is untouched._

 _  
_“No one has ever caressed you, here?” he asked aloud, removing one hand from the wall and brining it to trail slowly down the boy's chest. His fingers had nearly reached their prize when Tintin grabbed his wrist, holding it in a punishing grip.

“No,” Tintin repeated through gritted teeth. “And I doubt anyone ever will, now that my only option is _you_. A selfish, uncaring man that can’t take a refusal if it punched him in the face.”

That made Sakharine stop. 

He took a very long look at himself, then at Tintin. He looked at himself again. Then he groaned, stepping back. Tintin released his hand as he pulled away, and he used it to pinch his brow between his thumb and forefinger. “Damn it all,” he swore.

Feeling very tired suddenly, Sakharine returned to the couch and sat himself down, pressing his face into his palms. This was such a mess.

The sound of bottles clinking together caught his attention, and he glanced up. Tintin had opened the liquor cabinet and was looking through the assorted bottles of alcohol, having entirely ignored the bottle of champagne.

Sakharine stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing?” he asked. 

“I’m not entirely fond of feeling intoxicated,” Tintin stated, picking up bottles, turning them so that the label was face up, before placing them back. “Which is why I normally prefer a cup of tea on a rotten day. However, I believe that in this instance, we could both do with a drink.”

Appearing to have found something that satisfied him, Tintin uncorked a bottle with a rather loud pop, and grabbed two glasses in his free hand by their necks. He then walked back towards the chairs, seemingly unhesitant, but Sakharine thought he caught a brief flash of fear in Tintin’s expression as he passed him his glass and their fingers brushed. 

It decidedly did not pain Sakharine to know it was directed at himself. Not at all.

Tintin poured Sakharine’s drink first - ever the gentleman - then his own, before setting the bottle down on the table which separated them. Clearly inexperienced with alcohol, he drank it slowly, wincing visibly at the burn. Sakharine followed suit despite how much he wanted to finish his glass as quickly as possible, so as to have a new one poured. It wouldn’t do to become, as Tintin said, ‘intoxicated’, however, and ruin himself in the reporters eyes even more, so he held back. Still, he rather wished he could stop _feeling_ right now. His emotions were a jumbled mess.

By the time they reached their second glass, his thoughts were abuzz, which was the only reason why he thought his question was justified, if only to clear some of the noise in his head.

“How is it that someone like you has never been with another?”

Tintin choked on his drink, glaring at Sakharine over the rim of his glass. “What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “Does something about my person scream that I am a cheap whore?”

It was Sakharine’s turn to choke. “What, no!” he shouted, regretting his volume once he realized it made Tintin tense. He sighed. “No,” he said again, quieter this time. “If anything, quite the opposite. I’ve traveled a great deal, Tintin, same as yourself. During those travels, associates often met with me in less than commendable locations, such as Red Light Districts. I have encountered every type of prostitute imaginable as a result.”

Tintin looked at Sakharine as if he were something disdainful, but he continued on despite that.

“That being said, none of them ever interested me. People lifting their skirts, getting on their knees, all for barely enough pay to purchase a meal.” He shrugged. “I never saw the appeal.”

“I suppose it’s good to know you have some sort of a moral compass,” Tintin muttered. “That doesn’t exactly answere why it bothers you so much that I’ve never had sex, nor why you seem to find me more enticing than someone who would _willingly_ spread their legs for you.”

“It doesn’t bother me that you are inexperienced,” Sakharine denied. Quite the opposite, actually, but he would never say as much aloud. “I simply find it difficult to believe. You are very charming when you’re not actively getting in the way.”

“Oh, well do please pardon me for stepping all over your toes,” Tintin said irritably, “But I would like to point out that _you_ kidnapped me. If you didn’t want anyone to get in your way you should have left me well enough alone.”

“Rather difficult to accomplish that when you broke into my manor.”

“You broke into my apartment first!”

“No, Allen did. I was relaxing in my study with a dry martini when that unfortunate incident occurred.”

Tintin actually gave a small chuckle at that, which Sakharine felt immensely proud of himself for. At this point they had both nearly finished their second round, and he took it upon himself to top off both of their drinks. 

“As for your other question,” he continued, “I’m attracted to the mind, Tintin, more so than I am to the body. Men twice your age don’t carry themselves the way you do, and you are strikingly intelligent. Your physique is merely the icing on the cake.”

Tintin glared at him for the metaphor, but then seemed to ponder the answer, emptying his glass faster now, most likely because he was used to it.

“My journeys rarely let me spend more than a few days at most in one part of the world or another,” he began, his tone becoming a little despondent towards the end. “I simply never had the opportunity to develop a relationship with anyone in that manner.”

“Surely people have offered themselves?” Sakharine pressed, noting that the question seemed to make Tintin uncomfortable. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “But I have never been interested in a one night stand, or even a two night. Even in the rare cases I was attracted to someone, they often were already in love, or turned out to be my enemy in some fashion.”

Sakharine snorted. “A pity then, if they could not see you as someone more worthy of their attention.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tintin slurred. 

Sakharine blinked. Now that he was really looking at the boy, he noted that his cheeks had turned a lovely shade of pink. Clearly, he was a lightweight. 

“You keep saying things like that,” Tintin carried on, “But you don’t know me, don’t _care_ about me. Not really.” 

Sakharine bit his tongue to hold in a retort, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good. He watched as Tintin began to reach for the bottle once more, and decided to pull it away before the boy could pour himself a fourth glass. “I believe you’ve had enough,” he stated gently. 

“Bugger off,” Tintin groaned at him, standing. “I thought you would prefer me like this, _Ivan_.”

The use of his first name was startling enough that Sakharine failed to keep Tintin from snatching the bottle back. Rather than pour it into his glass, however, he drank straight from the source. It was rather discomforting thing to observe, and Sakharine felt ill as he watched Tintin rub his mouth with the back of his hand.

“This is how you controlled the captain for as long as you did, isn’t it?” he asked. “Keeping him like this, weak and useless. You have to be the smartest person in the goddamn room, you Kwal. Can’t- can’t accomplish that without making everyone else stupid.”

The beginnings of fury were making themselves known in his chest, but Sakharine did not allow them to gain any real ground. He took a deep breath. “I would like to point out,” he stated slowly, “That you were the one who suggested we should drink. I did not force you to do anything.”

Tintin growled, coming around the table so that he was towering over Sakharine, his legs brushing against Sakharine’s knees. “Stop it,” he spat, “Stop twisting everything so that you are blameless!”

He threw the now empty bottle aside, and it shattered. Before Sakharine could bemone him for the action, he found himself being straddled. He gasped, hands flying on instinct to grasp Tintin’s sides. “What are you doing!?”

Tintin tilted his head to one side, staring down at him with a horribly blank expression. “Giving you what you want,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His hands fisted themselves in Sakharines shirt; eyes hooded as he licked his lips. “Tell me you don’t want me,” he breathed.

He began lowering himself down, but Sakharine placed one of his hands onto his shoulder, effectively stopping him. “I do want you,” he admitted quietly. “More than anything in this world.”

“Then take me,” Tintin challenged. “Just like you take everything else.” He swallowed audibly. “Get it over with.”

Tintin was trembling now, from trepidation or suppressed rage, Sakharine could not tell. Whatever the case, it was a horrible thing to witness. His stubborn little spitfire, broken before him.

“I want you,” Sakharine said again, keeping his voice soft even as he shook his head. “But not like this. Not anymore.”

Tintin glared down at him for a very long moment, but then seemed to suddenly deflate. He closed his eyes and sagged forwards, forcing Sakharine to guide him down and to his right, so that the boy now rested beside him on the couch. 

“Easy,” he said gently. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Tintin sighed, a long, drawn out thing, and Sakharine brushed a hand through his hair in an attempt to be comforting. It was just as soft as he imagined, and he couldn’t help but do so again. It was simply far too pretty. “Exquisite,” he murmured without meaning to. 

Tintin’s eyes shot open, and he stared at Sakharine with uncertainty. Sakharine regarded him coolly in turn. It seemed rather odd to him that the boy had practically been demanding he have his wicked way with him not two minutes ago, and yet now, he was behaving like a cornered animal as Sakharine continued to card his fingers along his scalp.

“What are you-”

At that moment Sakharine’s nails brushed behind his ear, and the boy gasped.

Sakharine’s curiosity peaked. He repeated the motion, and Tintin nearly melted into the touch, groaning. Sakharine had to resist responding in kind. “There we go,” he whispered instead, leaning closer. 

He started at the top of Tintin’s head once more, making sure to brush behind his ears before reaching his neck, rubbing away the tension he found there.

Tintin whined. “Great Snake’s,” he breathed.

Sakharine could not help but smirk. “Would you like me to stop?” he offered politely.

“Don’t you dare,” Tintin told him, clearly trying to sound demanding but failing miserably.

Sakharine chuckled. Perhaps Tintin wouldn’t have been so eager to have Sakharine touch him had he not drank so much, but Sakharine was going to take advantage of the situation while he still could. He was an opportunist, after all. 

“Turn so that your back is facing me,” he ordered.

Tintin actually listened to him, albeit slowly, and Sakharine had to clench his fists in order to force himself not to simply manhandle the boy in whichever way he deemed fit. He could not afford to ruin this now.

Once Sakharine was certain he would not do anything foolish, he tenderly placed his hands on Tintin back; thumbs working small circles into his shoulders. “Let go for me,” he crooned, adoring the way that Tintin shivered in response. “You deserve only to feel good, my love.”

Tintin made a slight choking sound, weather from Sakharine’s words or the lips now gently pressing to the back of his neck - chasing the freckles that dotted down into his shirt collar - who could say. 

“Sakharine,” he gasped, arching slightly. It was unclear if he were trying to move towards or away from Sakharine’s ministrations.

“Hush,” Sakharine murmured, continuing to rub his back even as he brought his face away from Tintin’s neck. “Please forgive me that indulgence. I promise not to take such liberties without your consent again.”

Tintin opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was lost as he moaned, Sakharine having found a particularly sore area under his left shoulder.

It was far more satisfying having Tintin turn to putty in his hands than it had been rubbing Haddock’s face in the dirt. Nothing in Sakharine’s life could compare to this moment as he watched the reporter come apart at his fingertips; the beautiful sounds Tintin made setting his blood on fire. Everything in Sakharine’s mind and body urged him to claim the boy, make him his and his alone, but he withheld those impulses.

 _Not yet,_ a deeper corner of his mind whispered. _Soon._

The moment could not last forever, and Sakharine did not expect it to. Still, he found it rather disappointing when Tintin finally pulled away from his touch, turning around to face him once more. He was also greatly displeased to note that there were rather large bags under the boy’s eyes. “Are you feeling quite alright?” he asked.

Tintin scoffed at him, the effect slightly ruined by how exhausted he clearly was. “I haven’t had a proper night's rest that didn’t involve being chloroformed or bashed over the head in almost a week,” he stated tiredly. “I feel as if dead.”

Sakharine made himself stand, offering Tintin his hand. “We can’t have that now, can we?”

Tintin took his hand without any fuss, swaying only slightly once he was on his feet. He didn’t even complain when Sakharine continued to hold onto him, coaxing the young reporter back towards the room he had previously been in. A brief look of trepidation appeared on his face, but it was soothed by a promise that the door would remain unlocked.

“I wish you a pleasant rest,” he told Tintin cordially once the reached the doorway, squeezing his hand slightly before releasing it. 

Tintin barely acknowledged him, and Sakharine watched as he stumbled into the room. The boy nearly tripped and fell onto the bed, but he somehow managed to avoid that outcome. Instead, he climbed unceremoniously onto the mattress and burrowed himself under the sheets. 

_“Snowy_ ,” was a barely heard mumble, and Sakharine repressed a sigh of his own.

He would have to send someone for the dog.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh darn it, I really don’t understand how what I had originally planned to be a short, simple - and let’s not forget smutty - fic ended up this long and freaking emotional. 
> 
> You guys better be appreciating all the brain cells I’m spending on this.😤
> 
> Anyvays, enjoy!

Tintin lay on the bed with his hands behind his head, thinking. 

He had woken up unbound, but feeling no less trapped. It was tempting to just go back to sleep - his temple was throbbing worse than it had after the captain hit him over the head with an oar - but he knew it was imperative that he use the opportune quiet to sort his thoughts.

Everything about his situation was so incredibly frustrating. He honestly could not say what was more difficult to sit with, Salharine’s deal, or the consequences of his so called ‘decision’ thus far. Looking back, the answer he had given was still obvious. Sakharine was dangerous, and clearly a far more influential figure than he had previously thought. Saying ‘no’ to him was never an option; not without severe consequence. 

That being said, of course he wouldn’t consent to being someone’s property. The very idea was ludicrous. His ‘agreement’ bought him time, but the situation could grow dire at any moment. But, so long as Sakharine held to his word and didn’t… 

Tintin sighed heavily. _I can’t even think of it without getting flustered,_ he thought, annoyed. 

So long as Sakharine didn’t _touch_ him in any inappropriate ways, he felt that he’d be relatively safe and wouldn’t need to resort to violence. He would admit though, it had crossed his mind more than once to try knocking the man out and hauling him back to prison.

There would be no point, unfortunately.

Tintin couldn’t risk putting Sakharine behind bars if it only meant he would escape again and seek to hurt the Captain. Of course, one could argue he could just kill Sakharine, but that just wasn’t who Tintin was. He would not kill, not unless he had no other choice.

He needed information, and patience was the key. Once Sakharine trusted him, Tintin would find out the names of those who allowed him to be released, and just how much wealth the man had to his name. Then, he would formulate a plan on how to bring the man down. Until that time, Tintin would have to play along. 

Arguing about speaking to the Captain had proven to be a poor decision on his part in regards to that, but he had seen no other option. 

It was not as if Sakharine would have let him contact Thompson or Thomson. That left only Haddock. To anyone else it might seem like a death sentence, but let it never be said that Tintin didn’t have an ace or two up his sleeve. They had come up with a sort of code immediately after Sakharine’s arrest in order to tell if the other was in danger, should someone else come looking for the treasure. He just needed to talk to the Captain, preferably in person, and the man would know something was wrong, if not _what_ was. Honestly, neither of them had really thought they’d have to use it, but the adrenaline and remaining fear had not left either of them, so they decided it was better to be prepared. 

They had also thought that they would never have to see Sakharine again. Tintin had certainly hoped that would be the case. At least, not until after his rubbish thoughts of how, well, not how nice, but how interesting the kiss forced upon him had been. It had no right to leave him feeling confused, nor did the moment Sakharine straddled and _kissed him again_. 

Then, as if to add insult to injury, Sakharine began acting remorseful. It didn’t make any sense. The man was as selfish as he was insane, so why was he now behaving as if it physically pained him to force Tintin into doing anything? 

Tintin frowned. He found it completely infuriating. After putting him through hell for days both mentally and physically, Sakharine had the audacity to suddenly decide to grow a conscience and decide that Tintin’s consent mattered?

It had made him want to break the deception; bring out the monster Sakharine already proven himself to be. With alcohol bubbling in his bloodstream, the answer to his problem had been seemingly made clear: convince Sakharine to have sex with him. 

It seemed so simple at the time, though now the thought made Tintin feel ill. 

He had not exactly been saving his body, but that did not mean he didn’t want his first time to mean something. He could admit that Sakharine had a certain charm when he was not behaving like a madman, but that did not mean Tintin was attracted to him. He couldn’t be. He was simply unused to so much intimate, physical contact. He especially was not comfortable with Sakharine using his large, incredibly warm hands to brush back his hair and rub his back so wonderfully-

Tintin grabbed a pillow and groaned into it until he ran out of breath. “Bugger,” he mumbled into the fabric, Sakharine’s words echoing painfully in his mind: You deserve only to feel good, my love.

 _His love._ Great Snakes.

Tintin realized as he reflected upon those words, that he rather liked being called that - having _Sakharine_ call him that - and it struck him like a kick to the stomach. “Damn it all.”

At that moment, a familiar bark met his ears, followed by a pained scream. Tintin shot to his feet, racing for the door.

**_~oOo~_ **

“You mangy mutt!” Sakharine shouted, shaking his leg. Tintin’s dog only grew more determined and bit down harder, its teeth audibly ripping the fabric of his pants. Sakharine grabbed it by the scruff of its neck, pulling sharply even as it growled at him. “I swear, if you do not let go this instant, I will-”

“Snowy!” 

Sakharine looked up, blanching as he caught sight of Tintin standing in the doorway. He quickly released the dog’s nape and stood up straight, forcing his expression into an easy smile. “Good morning, Tintin,” he said pleasantly, wincing as the dog's teeth retracted.

Tintin didn’t answer him, instead opting to drop to one knee. His dog instantly ran to meet him, nearly knocking the reporter over. “Snowy,” he said again, less in disbelief and more with joy. He laughed as the dog licked his face. “Easy now, I’ve missed you too.”

The sight made Sakharine’s heart pound faster, and he found that he could barely contain his pride knowing it had been him who made Tintin smile like that. “How do you feel?” he asked, moving towards him. He wanted to be a part of this moment, be a part of Tintin’s happiness. 

Of course, the dog had to ruin everything. 

It instantly put itself between Sakharine and it’s master, baring their teeth in an aggressive snarl. Sakharine frowned, opting to move away rather than aggravate the animal further. To his shock, however, Tintin pulled the dog back.

“It’s alright, Snowy,” he told him calmly. “He isn’t going to hurt us.” The mutt looked back at him, head tilted in obvious confusion. “We’re going to be staying with Sakharine for a while, and I need you to behave. Can you do that for me?”

The dog gave a rather displeased _harumph_ , but Tintin was unmoved. Finally it sat down, still glaring at Sakharine with obvious distrust.

“Thank you,” Tintin told him, getting to his feet. “And thank you, for bringing him here unharmed,” he continued to say, this time directing his words to Sakharine. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You made it clear that you would be unable to live happily without your dog. I would be a fool not to bring him, even if it costs me all my trousers.”

He indicated to his legs, wincing as he saw the full extent of the damage. The fabric was torn in several places, possibly beyond repair. “Bloody hell,” he said, limping over to a chair at the dining table. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Your dog did not manage to break the skin as far as I can tell,” Sakharine assured him. “However, this happens to be my bad leg, and I fear I am going to develop quite a bit of bruising.” He sighed as he sat down. “How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Alright, I guess,” Tintin said, shrugging. Sakharine thought the motion looked somewhat forced; self conscious. 

“Well, I have breakfast ready if you're amenable. Though, I suppose at this point it’s more of a late brunch.”

At the mention of food, Tintin walked to the chair opposite of him, eyeing the eggs and toast with obvious hunger. He reached for the pot of tea first, sniffing the steam that rose out of it. His eyes widened. “Is this Oolong?”

“You’re familiar with it?” Sakharine asked, surprised. 

Tintin nodded, eagerly pouring the tea into his china cup before offering the pot to Sakharine. “It’s been a few years, but I had it when Snowy and I visited Shanghai.”

Sakharine took the proffered beverage and poured himself his own cup. “You really get around, don’t you,” he said, chuckling. “Tell me, what were you doing in Asia to begin with?”

Tintin’s eyes grew bright, and Sakharine found himself leaning forward in his chair as the boy began his story.

“It all started when a man by the name of Mitsuhirato was hit by a dart dipped in Rajaijah, otherwise known as the _Poison of Madness_ …”

The story took hours to tell in its fultality, but Sakharine barely noticed. He was completely enrapt with Tintin’s tale, finding himself more and more drawn to the reporter with each harroring act he recalled. He watched as a flush crawled up Tintin’s neck and cheeks when he described a particularly exciting moment, and knew that he could easily spend the rest of his life simply hearing Tintin tell him of his journeys.

He could only hope.

**_~oOo~_ **

“…and as for Chang, Wang decided to adopt him. I’d never seen anyone happier in my entire life.” 

Tintin took a deep breath as he finished, feeling more than a little winded. There was a reason why he wrote his stories rather than retell them verbally. 

“Absolutely incredible,” Sakharine praised him. “To think, you almost single handedly dismantled an international opium smuggling ring. Brilliant!”

Tintin could feel himself flushing from the flattery. “I couldn’t have done it without Snowy,” he deflected, looking down at the terrier in his lap. 

Snowy had opted to start whining mid story, demanding attention. Tintin had picked him up and placed him on his lap; a warm comfort as he recalled the more life threatening moments of their adventure. It also helped him to focus on something besides Sakharine.

“Do you know how they are doing now? If the Blue Lotus ever attempted to rise up once more?”

“Thankfully no, they haven’t,” Tintin told him. “I still write to Chang on occasion, and he’s assured me that things have been well in hand since I left. I’ll admit though, I have thought of visiting him and his stepfather for quite some time.”

“Why don’t we make it our first excursion?” Sakharine suggested brightly. “I have wanted to revisit China for a great many years. We could spend months there, exploring the diverse culture and landscapes.”

Tintin smiled widely, sharing the man's enthusiasm over the prospect of such an adventure. Perhaps they could even visit Louyang city, rumored to be nearly four thousand years old-

Suddenly, Tintin realized how absurd he was being.

Sakharine was his captor, his _enemy_. This was just part of a charade, allowing the man to think he had won when, in reality, Tintin had every intention of putting him in jail. Yet, the idea of spending more time with him, adventuring with him, had made Tintin feel excited and, dare he say, longing. 

Great Snakes, what was _wrong_ with him?

**_~oOo~_ **

Tintin’s face had brightened momentarily, before his expression became closed off. “I suppose,” he said, uncharastically dispassionate. 

He set his dog down and stood abruptly, walking away while the terrier followed. Sakharine stood as well - ignoring the slight throb of protest his leg gave - completely baffled.

“Tintin, what did I say?”

He was ignored, and Sakharine felt his blood begin to boil. He rushed towards them, and, just as Tintin was about to step into his room, Sakharine reached past him and shut the door. The dog had slipped in beforehand, and it barked angrily from the other side. “ _Tintin_ -”

“What?” Tintin snapped, turning on his heel to face him. “Am I not allowed to go into another room alone, or do you have to know about every breath I take?”

Sakharine reeled back slightly. “Don’t be absurd, I simply wish to understand why you suddenly felt the need to isolate yourself from my person after we had been getting on so well.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Sakharine blinked in confusion. “What?” he asked. Tintin turned his back to him and began to reach for the door handle, but Sakharine caught his wrist. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “Explain.”

Tintin struggled in his hold. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly, it does,” Sakharine retorted. Tintin did not desist his efforts to pull himself away. “Please, what did I do wrong?” 

At that, the reporter stilled. “Nothing,” he said. “Well, nothing today as far as I’m aware.”

“Then what is troubling you?” Tintin shook his head. “Tintin-“

“You’re a criminal, a _murderer_ ,” Tintin snapped. His shoulders tensed at his own sudden outburst, as if expecting a blow from behind as he kept going. “You have done horribly things, and I shouldn't, I-I can’t…” 

“What can’t you do, my love?” Sakharine asked Tintin gently. 

Tintin’s head snapped up, and he glared at him. “I’m not your anything,” he hissed. “Least of all your- _that_.”

Instead of the surge of anger Sakharine expected to feel from Tintin’s words, instead he could feel a pang of deep sorrow. “Tintin,” he started, then stopped. “Tintin, I call you that because I care very deeply for you. It does not define you. I will let you be your own person.”

“But that’s the point, isn’t it?” Tintin replied darkly, turning once more to face him fully. “You will _let_ me.” 

Sakharine stared at him, comprehension starting to work it’s way into his mind. 

**_~oOo~_ **

Tintin thought Sakharine actually looked thoughtful.

“I think I am beginning to understand why I want you so desperately,” he started slowly. 

Thar irked Tintin, but before he could object to the change of subject, Sakharine held a finger up, asking him silently to be quiet.

“I often compare you to fire, for both your temperament and your vivacity. You are untamable, free spirited in ways I never could be.” He sighed. “You have merely been playing along,” he stated. “I think that perhaps a small part of myself knew that from the beginning. I was simply too happy at the prospect of having you to see it.”

Tintin swore he could feel his heart stop beating. “What do you intend to do now?” he asked, dreading the answer. “Punish me for a deception I put up in the hopes of keeping myself and those I care about alive?”

Sakharine sighed. “No. Rather, I’ll pose my question again: will you be mine?”

Tintin found himself too shocked to respond. 

“You shall want for nothing, in neither riches nor adventure,” Sakharine promised him, raising Tintin’s hand and kissing his finger tips, his palm, his wrist. “I will give you anything, _anything_.”

“And with it a leash,” Tintin stated, finding his voice. 

Sakharine shook his head. “I have no intention of controlling you, nor any intentions of trying to change you.” His eyes bored pleadingly into Tintin’s. “I would rather you be mine by choice.”

Tintin closed his eyes. “I would never willingly belong to you,” he ground out. “And even if I were hapless enough to agree, you can’t really expect me to believe that you wouldn't eventually do something vile to me. You’re greedy, Sakharine.”

Sakharine’s hand - the one that had never let go of Tintin’s wrist - tightened minutely. 

“I told you that I would not do anything untoward, least of all sexual, to you without your consent,” he said quietly. “But,” he continued, “After reflecting on the time we have spent together, I have begun to wonder. Are you truly so averse?”

Tintin could only stare at him. “Of course I am,” he said, hating how unsure he sounded. Sakharine began to stroke his wrist with his thumb, pressing gently against the pulse point. 

“I think you are lying to me, Tintin,” he said lowly, causing a shiver to race down Tintin’s spine. “I can feel your heart racing. 

He pulled Tintin closer so that their foreheads were nearly touching. “And your eyes,” he continued, bringing his free hand to Tintin’s face in order to cup his cheek. “The pupils have blown so wide that they threaten to pull me into their depths.” 

Tintin swallowed, clenching his hands into fists so that they wouldn’t tremble. “Please,” he whispered, not sure what he was asking for. 

“Please what, my treasure?” 

“I’m not-” 

Tintin gasped, hands flying to grasp Sakharine’s shoulders as the man's fingers found that bizarre spot behind his ear. He moaned, shuddering as Sakharine’s hands moved in order to cradle the small of his back and behind his head. His knees threatening to buckle as Sakharine began placing a scattering of kisses across his neck, sucking lightly.

“Not what, Tintin, not mine?” Sakharine chuckled into his ear. “Perhaps not, but each of these lovely sounds you're making certainly are. I wonder how many more I have yet to coax from you.”

Tintin groaned, pulling the man closer to him. “Sakharine,” he whimpered. “Don’t stop.”

Sakharine moaned, bringing his lips crashing against Tintin’s before he could realize the man had moved. 

Unlike the other times Sakharine had kissed him, Tintin allowed himself to enjoy and experience it fully. Tongues and teeth clashed; nips that were chased by soothing licks and moans swallowed whole. Heat spread wickedly fast throughout his body, and Tintin welcomed it, decidedly uncaring of the consequences.

He had dug his grave, now he would lie in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: the Blue Lotus stuff I have included? My favorite comic in the series.😁
> 
> Anyhoo, WOW I am actually proud of this chapter. What did y’all think? Leave me a comment and I’ll get back to you when I can. Read ya later!!!


End file.
